Letters to the Dead
by YesItsAWorkDay
Summary: The war is over. The light won. But it isn't happily every after for everyone. Hermione is struggling to come to terms with "after," and her grief over the death of a certain snarky potions master... who may or may not be dead. Dark tone/themes. Non-canon. Please R&R. All characters belong to the lovely JK Rowling. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

I've always struggled with the aftermath of the final battle. How we cut to the Golden Trio all grown up and happy. It seems to me that after everything they went through and everything they lost there would be a long road between the last dark curse and happily ever after. And for some reason my brain really wanted to walk that road... so here we go. Right now I'm envisioning about 10 chapters. Any feedback is much appreciated!

Inspired by an Anna Akhmatova poem:

_Wild honey has a scent – of freedom_  
_Dust – a scent of sunshine_  
_And a girl's mouth – of violets._  
_But gold – nothing._  
_Water – like mignonette._  
_And like apple – love._  
_But we have learned that_  
_blood smells only of blood._

* * *

Severus,

I hope you won't mind me addressing you so informally, not after everything that's happened.

We won. I'm supposed to be happy. I _deserve_ to be. Everyone says so. And yet….

That's why I'm writing to you. I think you lived in the world of 'and yet' for a long, long time. I think you of all people would understand, or maybe that's just transference? Me wishing to see my own pain reflected in someone else, to know that it's okay to _not_ be okay.

We won… and I can't stop thinking of what we lost. Not just the lives, but… well, how can anyone go through all of that and be the same? How can all that darkness not seep into the soul like ink on parchment?

I can hear your snort of derision. If I saw you now, if I had the characteristic Gryffindor bravery to voice any of this to your face, you'd say, "Such dramatics, Ms. Granger."

But would you mean it? Would you really think I'm being dramatic or would you, underneath it all, get it? I like to think the latter. Scratch that, I _need_ to think the latter.

Not that it matters whether I have bravery or if you'd really understand because it can't happen now, can it? I can't ever say that to you. And you won't ever read this. Because I failed you, like I failed so many others—my parents, the Weasleys… it's a long list, I won't bore you by reciting it all.

I tried to save you. When you were lying on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, did you know I was there? I hope so. I hope you know that in your final moments you weren't alone. Bearing witness is the least I could do after all you did for Harry, for all of us.

We won. Light triumphed over darkness, and the Golden Trio rode off into the sunset… but what now? We smile and shake hands at celebrations and ceremonial parades but what about when the crowds leave and the house lights come down?

In the past six months I've learned a lot.

I've learned that everyone loves a hero… especially a damaged hero, but not a broken one. A hero with a scar is great, as long as it isn't too graphic.

I've learned, and this one would surprise you, to keep my mouth shut. I've learned how to swallow screams, tears, secrets, and even answers… because a broken hero who speaks the truth is an unwanted, and maybe even a dangerous, thing.

I haven't been well. (Ah, now I can picture that single raised eyebrow).

A muggle grief counselor suggested that writing to you might give me closure, might help me 'acknowledge the pain and start to heal.' (Can you hear my snort of derision?)

I can't talk to a magical counselor. That wouldn't fit with the image the Ministry is trying to convey. After all, we're all okay now. It's over. We won. Nothing to see here.

So, a muggle counselor it is. Of course, she can only know a shade of the truth—that I witnessed someone close to me get murdered. I can't even tell her it was more than one someone because that would seem out of place. A mass murder is something she would have heard about on the news.

Notice how even for her, a stranger, I have to play a role? I have to pretend to be a _normal_ grieving person.

And you were the someone I settled on. So you're the spokesperson now for all of my grief.

Maybe if she knew the truth her advice would be different? Regardless, even if it _is_ rubbish, I have to try something.

I'm not quite ready to give up. Not yet. Us Gryffindors are nothing if not persistent, as you well knew.

So, here it goes: You're dead, and I can't stop thinking about you. Mostly but not just you. I'm haunted by so many ghosts that they're starting to feel more real to me than the living. (I know, more dramatics.)

Every night I go to another event. I drink champaign and smile. I wear long sleeves and hold my breath when someone brushes against me. I stand very still and count things—the tiles, the number of glasses, anything, really—so I don't have to think.

You'll think I'm a lunatic, and perhaps I am a 'certifiable' hero (get it?), but I'm mourning you. Not just because I failed you but because you deserved to live. You deserved a chance at freedom and happiness, more than anyone, maybe, and the fact that you won't get it is so… unfair. That word isn't strong enough. It's unjust. It's cold… and no one else seems to notice—or they _won't_ notice.

The same way they simply won't notice that Ron laughs a bit too often and a smidge too loudly, that Harry always looks just slightly over your shoulder when speaking to avoid eye contact, or that I, the girl that always had an opinion or factoid to offer, speak as little as possible these days.

Really, what could possibly come after all of that?

We won. And yet….

With respect and regrets,  
HJG


	2. Chapter 2

Severus,

If you had lived, what would you do? What exactly does after look like?

That question is probably why all of the stories end with the hero victorious, sweeping the damsel off her feet. They never tell you about "after." After isn't glamorous.

For instance, does the damsel stay with the hero even though he wakes up screaming every night? Does she stay even though he can't hold a job because (shockingly) being a hero doesn't really impart you with valuable career skills?

Harry and Ginny got engaged tonight. They're embodying the hero archetype of riding off into the sunset, into the waiting arms of happily ever after. Or at least that's the picture that's being painted. Don't get me wrong, I _want_ that for them. Does it sound like I don't? I really, _really_ do.

It's just… when I catch Harry's eyes, I see the same thing I see in my own. I don't have a name for it, but I know it's a dangerous thing and that it wants out. I feel it gnawing at me, testing, looking for weak spots through which it might escape.

I don't know what would happen if it found a way out. What is it? Is it my sanity—would I end up like Neville's parents? Is it my soul—would I cease to feel anything? I don't know, and I'm not brave enough to find out. Not anymore.

So what would you do?

It may (or may not) surprise you to know that I've been teaching potions. My test scores were high, McGonagall was desperate, and the Ministry needed some place to stash me between propaganda events. I was barely consulted.

So here I am. Haunting the same halls, classroom, and chambers you did.

I know I should be thankful I'm alive. Even if it isn't the stuff of fairy tales, I at least get to see an after. I'm sorry that I'm such an ungrateful chit.

I just can't seem to reconcile who I want to be with who I am with who they need me to be. I'm shattered and every way I look, there's this distorted reflection of myself. I don't know which is real or how to fit the pieces together.

If you were here you'd probably tell me to pull myself together, and maybe your deep voice would pull me down, would ground me. More likely though you'd ask why the hell I'm bothering you with this. Why not just keep a diary?

I tried that. I did. But I couldn't stand to have the evidence of my weakness just lying around. (As if anyone comes into my chambers!) I kept throwing the pages into the fire.

Besides… in the after, we've all got our vices. Ron sleeps with every girl who will give him the time of day. Harry smiles so hard and so constantly that it makes my jaw ache. George drinks. Molly frets and won't leave the house. Sirius manages, trying to control us all. I guess mine is writing letters to a dead man.

So what am I going to do? You'll be shocked, but for once I don't know the answer.

From the after,  
HJG

* * *

The sound of a talon rapping on glass filled him with a sense of deep dread. An understatement if ever there was one. The twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach had formerly been reserved for the likes of Voldemort and Albus Dumbledore, two masters who both dealt in pain, just different varieties of it.

Voldemort preferred physical. Fire. Albus mental. Ice.

He opened the window, extracted the battered letter, and closed the glass again without offering the owl any refreshment. Its large golden eyes stared at him reproachfully, but eventually the creature took flight, finding itself no match for the man's own determined stare.

Not surprising. Few had ever been able to withstand the withering glare of Severus Snape.

* * *

_Author's note: Cue the dramatic music right? Obviously non-canon at this point since Severus is alive (and Sirius). Let me know what you think. Any feedback is much appreciated as I'm trying to become a better writer. Thanks in advance!_


	3. Chapter 3

Severus,

Me.

Again.

I can't sleep. Actually, I guess it would be more accurate to say I won't sleep. I know what's waiting.

Was it ever like that for you? Did you ever know the _exact_ nightmare that was waiting for you, down to the last detail? The intricate carvings in the crown molding, the somber tones of the painting above the mantle, whirls of muddy footprints on gleaming tile….

Just thinking about it makes my arm burn and my stomach twist.

I don't sleep much anymore, which does allow me to avoid the nightmares but unfortunately, gives me a lot more time to think.

My counselor suggested that I write to you the things I wish I had said, that I get them off my chest. I've been thinking about that a lot. Too much, maybe.

It's not like I had a lot of chances to say deep and meaningful things to you or that I even had deep and meaningful things to say back then. Unless you found _Hogwarts, A History_ of great comfort?

So I guess I just have a general sense of regret and loss. Regret that I didn't know more (of course, right?), that I wasn't more mature, that I just wasn't… better.

I don't know. The one specific time that comes to mind is that afternoon in the library. I can't forget the look in your eyes. Honestly, I'm not sure I want to.

I'm sorry I didn't say something, didn't do more. I've no excuse other than I was hopeful, and I was so righteously sure of that hopefulness. I still thought that there were going to be happily ever afters for everyone, handed out like the medals they gave us before all the dead were even buried.

That, and I was a coward. You always seemed utterly unshakable to me, and I was afraid of what haunted your dreams. I was afraid it would render me a speechless silly little girl (as if I wasn't already that). I was afraid it would eviscerate my hopefulness as easily as one would rip a centuries old piece of parchment.

So… if I could go back, what would I say?

Maybe: "Severus, I'm sorry that you're spending what might be one of the last nights of your life with an insufferable know it all. A naive Pollyanna who thinks everything will always work out because we're the good guys."

Maybe: "Severus, I'm sorry that you think you _have_ to die, that you think this is the end you deserve. You don't. You deserve forgiveness and happiness. You deserve the freedom you've never known because some master has always held sway over you, whether it was your father, Lily, Voldemort, or Dumbledore."

Maybe: "Severus, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you never _really_ got to experience the good things in life—loyalty, friendship, love—they've always been used against you. They've always been weapons, bludgeons used to break your bones and reshape you into the form that someone else wanted. You deserve better, more."

Or maybe I would have just listened, made you another cup of tea, and kept you company through the night.

Take your pick. They're all true.

Part of me hopes that somewhere, somehow these words reach you and provide some comfort. Another part of me hopes you're beyond all this now. All of me hopes that you're at peace.

Sleeplessly yours,  
HJG

* * *

We've got a bit of a slow burn going on here. I hope you're enjoying it. Please R&R.

Teaser: Next chapter will _not _be a letter and it'll be from someone else's POV.


	4. Chapter 4

For his part, if he could go back, he wouldn't have read her letters. Specifically the third one. He _might_ have been okay if he had just read the first two but that third one….

Why _did_ he read them? Was it the streak of masochism that was ingrained in his soul? Was it boredom? Could it possibly have been hope?

Hope that someone might, just might, miss him?

From the first moment the owl tapped on his window, clutching a worse-for-the-wear letter, his world had been off its axis.

He dreaded her infernal letters… and yet awaited them with gnawing anticipation.

He read each again and again, picking apart every detail, both the written and unwritten.

The first had whole sentences in which the letters crowded together, as if Hermione were speaking very quickly, in a hurry to get it out before she changed her mind. Or as if a damn within her had burst and she couldn't control the torrent that poured forth.

The second letter, where she began trying to persuade herself to buck up, showed parchment nearly worn through from the pressure of her hand—as if by making the letters deep and dark she could imprint them on her mind and make them reality.

The third, his undoing, showed water marks. They could have been caused in transit, but Severus didn't think so. He thought (or chose to think, maybe) that she had been crying when she wrote it. The question was, why? Because she was exhausted and too afraid to sleep? Because her nightmares were beginning to intrude into her waking life? Or was she crying _for_ him?

He tried not to allow himself to think the last. The idea of someone crying for him, not because of something he had done, but for him, Severus Snape, was utterly foreign. The idea left a strange taste in his mouth.

Severus was morbidly fascinated with her letters. He couldn't match the person that wrote them with the bucktoothed bushy haired know-it-all that had sat in his classroom all those years. How could a girl, because that's what Hermione Granger was, a girl of barely nineteen, write these things? More than that, how could she feel and understand them?

Some of the things she said—they touched the quick of his soul. They sent a sharp sting followed by a throbbing ache through him, like when you cut a fingernail too short and it doesn't quite bleed but almost… almost.

She shouldn't know these things.

That thought came to him over and over, unbidden. It lurked just beneath the surface of his brain, waiting to pounce.

And Severus hated that thought. He wished there was a way to burn it out of his synapses. That thought led him to places he decidedly did not want to go.

The truth was, he had fully intended to die during the war. He had sins for which to atone and nothing to live for so death seemed like the noble (and easy) way out. When Severus had awoken on the blood soaked ground, grievously injured with what felt like broken glass in this throat but somehow still alive, he figured he had given all he could. He had offered up his life and Death had passed him over… so surely that meant he was done.

After all, he had played his role in the assisted suicide of one of the most respected wizards of all time and stood by while a giant snake tore into his throat—what more could anyone possibly expect of him? For once, Severus decided, the answer was nothing.

And six months after Voldemort's death, here he was—living a secluded life in the middle of nowhere. He rarely went out and when he did no one knew him. His life had become very small in scope, and yet, Severus had never felt so unencumbered. Despite the scars, the lingering effects of Nagini's venom, and the nightmares, he had never felt so free… and then came her thrice damned letters.

Of course the brightest witch of her generation would have an equally smart owl that could find anyone, even men that were supposed to be six feet underground. And of course she couldn't be satisfied with just writing letters; no, she had to actually send them out. He would have expected nothing less.

His eyes traced the curves of her handwriting, memorizing the swoops of her letters the way you might memorize the curve of someone's jaw or the line of their nose. He wanted to sink into obscurity, and yet… someone was keeping him alive, someone was just maybe, grieving him.

Someone that was obviously struggling with her own war wounds. And to him it sounded like instead of scabbing over with time they were getting infected.

He wanted to be the bastard that didn't care. The cold hearted git who cast her letters into the fire and forgot all about 'HJG.' But could he?

He owed her nothing… and yet.

And if he _did_ go down that road, if he did allow himself to worry about her, what would that mean? He was dead to her and the world, and he didn't really want that to change. So how could he help her? He had never been particularly adept at helping himself and he knew even less about comforting grieving teenage girls. What good would he possibly be to her? In fact, he was probably of more use to her dead, as an imaginary friend to which she could pour out her heart, then alive.

_"I can't forget the look in your eyes. Honestly, I'm not sure I want to."_

Of course she would see their encounter in the library as one of her failures, when to him it was anything but….

* * *

_AUTHOR'S NOTE _

_Ladies and gentlemen—buckle up. Next chapter we're taking a little trip back in time to see what exactly did happen in the library... _

_In the meantime, thank you a million times over to everyone who took the time to review or in some way express interest in the story (such as following it). Shoutout to BrokenWingFlying—thank you for the feedback on Hermione's character development. I really appreciate it! _


	5. Chapter 5

_AUTHOR'S NOTES_

_I've got a bit of an AU timeline going on here. In my mind this whole scene takes place sometime after Dumbledore asks Snape to kill him and after Snape has made the unbreakable vow to Narcissa, but before he actually kills Dumbledore. _

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far. I truly appreciate you taking the time to do so. Shoutout to THGHPTVD.2—thank you for catching my typo back in chapter 3 and for your very kind words. They made my weekend._

_From here on out, I'm planning to update the story every Wednesday. So, stay tuned. _

_Now, shhh... we're going into the library..._

* * *

It was raining, which was perhaps an understatement. Needle thin streaks of water fell with such intensity that the air was filled with a steady hiss. It created a white noise that muffled all other sounds. The sky was leaden, weighed down with clouds that seemed to almost touch the rooftops. Only weak tendrils of light escaped. Intermittently, thunder hummed in the distance, the growl of a restless beast.

All said, it was rather miserable outside and in. 12 Grimmauld Place was never particularly cheery, but in this weather it was downright oppressive in it's unwelcomeness. A damp chill invaded every room, regardless of how many logs were thrown on the fire. Shadows stretched languidly from every corner and refused to be pushed back.

The atmosphere matched Severus' mood perfectly. Although, admittedly, his mood was usually some shade of storm.

Severus had fallen into bed right as milky pale light broke across the horizon, his body still shivering with aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse. Sleep visited him only briefly. He woke within a few hours, choking on something between a sob and a scream.

The nightmare hovered just out of reach. He lay still for a moment—listening to the house around him. Distantly he could hear crockery being shuffled about, undoubtably Molly cooking for her brood. He could hear the hush of the rain on the roof. No footfalls sounded nearby, and no one was pounding on the door asking him to keep it bloody down, so much to his relief, Severus figured he hadn't actually cried out.

Even though he was exhausted, eyes prickling and head heavy, he knew sleep wouldn't be returning. Which was fine—he couldn't remember his nightmare exactly but the sharp tang of adrenaline in his mouth told him it had been bad.

However, if he wasn't going to sleep, what was he going to do? It was one of the very rare moments in which Severus found himself without obligation—no master to bow and scrape to, no dunderheads to babysit, no potions to tend to. He couldn't just lie in bed though. If he did he'd torture himself with thoughts of what was to come.

_"And my soul Dumbledore? Mine?" _

Severus shook the thought away. No, better to seek some kind of distraction….

A rainy day like this all but begged for a book. With only 3 hours of sleep to his name and a distant ache in his temples, Severus knew he'd never be able to follow anything too complicated. Literary junk food it was then.

He moved silently, avoiding brushing against the faded floral wallpaper that lined the hall. Even he, the bat of the dungeons, noticed the dampness in the air. Severus wondered how the hell Sirius could stand the place. It was no wonder the house elf was deranged. Severus felt certain that if he were stuck here for any length of time he'd go stark mad himself.

Outside of the library, he paused. Over the crackling of logs, he heard the soft whisper of pages. He knew without looking that it was Granger. She had all but taken up permanent residence in the space, staking it out like it was her God given territory.

Well, Severus Snape wasn't about to let the bushy haired brat run him off.

He swept in, mouth pressed into a determined line.

She didn't even glance up.

That made him pause. He had expected her to either a.) scurry away like a cockroach when the lights come on or b.) start peppering him with facts, most likely from _Hogwarts, A History_, in an attempt to impress him.

The fact that she took no notice of his presence threw him, just a bit. He sniffed and busied himself looking over the shelves.

His eyes slide to her a few times, as if expecting to catch her mocking him behind his back. Each time her head was dipped, hair falling around her face, flashing gold in the firelight. He noted the way her fingers grasped the edge of the book, holding it like it was both a delicate thing and a lifeline.

He selected a book and settled himself near the fire.

Severus lost himself in the book easily, the way one would slip into a hot bath after a trying day. Reading had always been his favorite escape, always a trusty friend ready to divert his attention. He was so engrossed in the book that by the second chapter he had forgotten Granger's presence entirely—until she rose.

Her sweater crackled against the chair and her shoes, some sort of barely-there flats, whispered across the rug. By the time he looked up her back was to him, hair loose and cascading across her shoulders. Without a word she disappeared into the black mouth of the hallway.

Well…. Perhaps his presence had disturbed her? Too bad.

He glanced at the table and saw she had left her book there, open. It irked him that she couldn't be bothered to put things back where they belonged. This wasn't her room; she couldn't just leave things lying about as if it made no difference to anyone else.

Severus turned his attention back to his book… which worked for a minute or two, but her book, lying open and discarded, continued to tug at his attention. With a huff, he heaved himself up, intending to put it away—perhaps in the wrong place, which would serve her right if she decided to come back to finish it.

Just as his fingers grazed the pages, she appeared in the doorway… carefully balancing two cups on saucers.

They took each other in—her expression one of muffled amusement, his a bit sheepish. He hadn't seen her like this, head on, since school let out for the summer. She looked different; her face a little sharper and thinner.

"I thought you might like some tea, Professor." Her voice was hushed as if they were in the Hogwarts' library and Madam Pince might round the corner at any moment.

"Most people ask _before_ they go to the trouble, Ms. Granger," he said, drawing himself up.

"I didn't want to interrupt. I can't stand when someone breaks the spell of a good story," she explained, brushing past him and setting the cup on the table nearest his chair. For a moment she was framed in firelight.

"Would you mind if I moved closer to the fire?"

"It's a free country, Ms. Granger."

She was silent. It stretched between them. Finally, she said, "For the moment."

Her eyes searched his face. He held out her book, hoping to deter further conversation. He couldn't stop himself from noticing how large her eyes were and how warm. They nearly burned him.

"Your tea's going cold," she cautioned. She slide into the chair across from his and still didn't look away.

He sat down and took a sip of the tea to humor her. It was earthy and complex with a tiny splash of milk, just the way he liked it. Fleetingly he wondered how _she_ knew that.

The scents of worn leather, smoke, herbs, and old pages engulfed him. All things considered, Severus might actually have been able to relax, if not for the fact that she was _still_ looking at him.

Finally, when he didn't think he could withstand her gaze any longer… "May I ask you something?"

He sighed. "If you must, Ms. Granger."

"Are you alright?" Her voice was gentle. She was being very still, as if he might spring from the chair and flee. Severus said nothing.

As the silence stretched between them, she took a sip of her tea. She waited, perhaps thirty seconds, and then leaned forward to press on. "You had a nightmare earlier. I just… are you alright? Do you… want to talk about it?"

"With you?" He sneered, a more instinctual response than anything else. Playing the git came naturally to him. He felt his face twist into an expression of distaste without even having to think about it.

Granger bit her lower lip but didn't retreat.

"I don't see anyone else offering," she replied calmly. Her statement was matter of fact, not meant to antagonize him. He wondered when she had grown a backbone.

He locked eyes with her, searching. Surprisingly, something in him _did_ want to tell her because he knew what she would say. She was still a child, after all. Incapable of fully grasping the horrors of what had come and what was still to come. She would offer soft, albeit meaningless, words. She would tell him it was alright, that everything would be okay. And maybe, if he tried very _very_ hard, he could believe her. Even if it was just for today.

He'd like very much to believe that everything could be set to rights again, as easily as he had planned on sliding her book back on the shelf.

It was utter rubbish but he'd still _like_ to believe it.

It was impossible.

Severus broke eye contact.

"I'll not be fodder for the gossip mill, Ms. Granger."

She released her lip and for once in her bloody life, closed her mouth, teeth coming together with a near audible click. She sat back, letting the chair engulf her, picked up her book, and resumed reading as if she had completely lost interest in him.


	6. Chapter 6

_So she brought you a cup of tea, big de—_

_Just the way you like it._

_Oh, so someone figures out you like milk in your tea and suddenly you owe them a life debt?_

_Come off it, you know it was more than that … She was nice to you. She tried. Again and again, and it wasn't just the library._

No, Severus had to admit that. It wasn't _just_ tea in the library on a single rainy afternoon.

Hermione had always been respectful toward him… even when he had been a perfect git. And while he didn't have a clear memory of it, he was certain that she had tried to save him in the Shrieking Shack.

Even his "death" hadn't stopped her from being nice. She had ensured that the Ministry exonerated him, that there was testimony on record that Severus Snape had been one of the "good guys." Hell, she had even made sure he was awarded an Order of Merlin posthumously.

And then there were her infernal letters.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think… or maybe tried to stop thinking quite so much. Really, his head was feeling rather crowded with all of the thoughts he suddenly had on the subject of one Hermione Jean Granger.

It was as insufferable as she was… or had been. Her letters painted a very different picture than the one he had formed during her school days.

_Pretty sure the **war** did that to her, mate. You know, being tortured by a lunatic? Watching a bunch of people, including you, be savagely murdered? Probably even killing a few people herself… those type of things tend to change a person._

Great, just great. Severus wondered exactly how much he would have to drink to get the sanctimonious voice in his head to shut up.

He had never been much for drinking. Alcohol intake and being a double agent hadn't really gone hand-in-hand. And now that the war was over, drinking himself into oblivion didn't seem quite so appealing. Besides, as it was, he frequently woke up with a headache brought on by clenching his jaw while he slept.

But tonight, he was thinking of making an exception.

He was supposed to be free now. And the last thing he wanted was to feel that he had some responsibility to Hermione Granger of all people. She was not his mess to clean up. There were other people, people who loved her, who owed her more than he did, right? They should be seeing to her. This was _their_ problem.

_Maybe she isn't that bad…_

Severus snorted. He appreciated some part of himself trying to talk the rest of him down, but really, Ms. Granger had never been overly dramatic. Pushy and bossy, yes. A goody-two-shoes know-it-all, without a doubt. A drama queen, sadly, not that he could recall.

He eyed a bottle of scotch gathering dust on the bookshelf by his fireplace. It was his "in case of emergencies" scotch. It was his "in case you really want to go to sleep but are afraid of what's waiting" scotch. It was his "I really would like to stop seeing the faces of the dead, especially the people I killed" scotch.

At a minimum there were more qualified people. There had to be. Severus Snape was by no one's definition the poster boy for well adjusted mental health. It was absurd on every level. He would probably just do more harm than good anyway.

_You always were good at making excuses..._

Severus didn't bother replying to that nagging voice. He stalked over to the bookshelf and seized the scotch by the neck, the glass felt cool under his calloused fingers. He cracked the seal and took a swig straight from the bottle. It seared like hot coals going down his throat.

As he was tossing his head back, the liquid inside caught the light from the fire and sparked to life, flecks of gold dancing within. Before he could stop himself, Severus vividly remembered her eyes. In the library.

He slammed the bottle down on the mantle, gripping the warm wood for support. He took a deep breath and tried to push Hermione out of his mind.

He quickly realized that the thought of her was just as stubborn as the real her.

"And what if it _is_ about the bloody tea?" Severus asked himself, a little startled by his own voice.

No one else had ever brought him a cup of tea just the way he liked it, let alone gone out of their way to do so.

No one else had ever asked him if he was alright and wanted a genuine answer instead of just assurances that he would get the job done.

Not only that but she had stayed with him, provided quiet company, even after he had snarled at her like some kind of rabid beast.

And of course the letters.

Fine.

Maybe he didn't owe her his life or anything quite so drastic, but he figured that however you looked at it, he did owe her something. Some compassion.

Unfortunately, the failings of others didn't nullify his debt, and if there was one thing Severus Snape had learned, it was to always pay debts promptly.

Hell, the least he could do was make her a cup of tea, right?

* * *

_AUTHOR'S NOTE_

_Thanks for reading! I would love to know what you think so far. _

_A HUGE thanks to everyone who has reviewed—your feedback is invaluable as both inspiration and to my development as a better writer. Shoutout to Lucyole—thank you for the kind words last week and for the inspirational "cookies." (We should probably switch to carrot sticks or something though until the stay-at-home order lifts and I can get back to the gym!) _


	7. Chapter 7

_AUTHOR'S NOTE_

**_WARNING:_**_ Bad language ahead. Sorry if it offends you, but I felt it was necessary for this chapter. _

_Thank you for the lovely reviews. THGHPTVD.2, Mundy, Lucyole—you all have reviewed multiple chapters and I greatly appreciate it. Seriously, you three are grand. Oh, and Lucyole—those veggie cakes must have worked because this is the longest chapter yet! :) _

* * *

"Merlin, 'Mione, you could at least _pretend_ to be happy for them."

"I _am_ happy for—"

"You've got a funny way of showing it."

"And you don't? Remind me—how does getting tossed and trying to grope all of the bridesmaids—"

"Not _all_ of the bridesmaids," Ron interjected, grabbing another drink off of a floating tray.

"Only because you know I'd hex your bollocks off."

"Look, 'Mione, you know I love you. Even though things didn't work out between us… like that… you and Harry are my best mates. But you… you're not right these days. Cold as ice. Impossible to talk to—"

"Ron, you can _always_ talk to me." She caught his eyes as she said it, trying to push the sincerity of her words past the haze of alcohol and masculinity clouding his brain.

"No, no because you're always doing things like that."

"Like what?"

"Everything you say… it cuts deep. You can't just have a laugh. Relax. Celebrate."

"I'm sorry I'm not shallow enough for you, Ron, and incidentally, I think you're doing enough celebrating for the both of us."

Before he could reply, Hermione spun around… and nearly collided with Sirius, who always seemed to be hovering, lurking. She was really starting to detest his constant presence. He was always trying to wrangle and cajole the "Golden Trio." To Hermione it seemed like Harry had an agent rather than a surrogate father.

"Hermione! Enjoying yourself?" His face was stretched with a grin, but it didn't quite touch his eyes.

"Immensely," she replied, rather grimly.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"No, thank you." Hermione began to step around him, eyes already roving over the tables in the hall for the fourth time this evening. Recounting them so she wouldn't give any more thought to her conversation with Ron, at least not right now. After she counted the tables, she'd count the number of flowers in each centerpiece and do the math. And then maybe, she could start calculating how long until she could leave without causing a scene.

"Might I have a word?" Sirius took hold of her elbow as if she were the one who had been drinking and might need to be supported.

She yanked her arm away as if scalded. Hermione didn't remember being a huge fan of casual touching before the war but it was definitely on the no-go list now. She abhorred all the touching that went along with being a hero. The endless hand shaking and photo ops where perfect strangers slung their arms around her like they were old chums.

"Ah, my apologies." Sirius didn't sound particularly sorry. He gestured for Hermione to go ahead of him.

They stepped into the night, and Hermione immediately felt the pressure in her temples ease. The brisk air was like a cool washcloth pressed over her eyes.

"Hermione, dear, are you a bit under the weather?" Sirius asked as he closed the door, cutting off the sound of soft music and clinking glasses. Hermione could definitely have done without the paternal tone.

"I'm well, thank you. Your concern for my health is… touching."

"Of course, you're like a daughter to me! Which is why I know you aren't quite yourself this evening…."

He paused to allow Hermione to speak, to rush to tell him about all of her problems. She said nothing. After the silence stretched for what could only be called an awkward amount of time, Sirius pressed on. "If you have any concerns, no matter how minor, I'm sure you know you can speak with me. I want nothing in life but for you and Harry and Ron to be happy. You deserve it."

"Is that what tonight's about… Harry's happiness?"

_"Shut up,"_ a voice in her head hissed.

"Whatever do you mean, my dear?"

"I didn't realize that having Rita Skeeter, Ministry officials, and the upper echelons of Wizarding society, people we've never met, at his engagement party was integral to Harry's matrimonial bliss."

_"Stop talking,"_ the voice said.

Sirius appraised her silently for a moment, really looking at her, as if he hadn't seen her in a very long time and wasn't quite sure that the girl in front of him was Hermione Granger.

"Hermione… you're right. It may not be _quite_ what Harry and Ginny would have wished, were all the arrangements left up to them but this is an important event—"

"For whom?"

"Why, for the whole community. Harry and Ginny getting married is a big deal. It's a sign of healing, of things going back to normal."

"More a sign of things being swept under the rug."

"Pardon?" She was entirely certain he had heard her.

_"What do you think you're going to accomplish?"_

"Things are **_not_** going back to normal… in case you hadn't noticed. Ron is trashed. Ginny's mum isn't even here. Lupin is practically comatose, has been since Tonk's death, but that didn't stop you from trotting him out for the occasion. I'm not certain he even recognized his own son, who by the way, is practically being raised by Luna and Neville. And it's _really_ saying something when Luna is one of the most normal, lucid people at an event. And don't even get me started on Harry!"

"Hermione, dear, healing takes time…."

"What part of pouring champagne and smiling for cameras do you find the most cathartic?"

"You're being very… well, just impossibly difficult. Are you jealous?"

"Jealous?"

"Of Harry and Ginny? I know you and Ron—"

"Oh, sod off Sirius! It's got nothing to do with that and you know it."

"Look Hermione, I don't know what's going on with you, but you have a part to play, and you need to be a good sport about it. The whole Wizarding world is looking to you to set an example of how one can pick up the pieces and move on."

"I've played my part."

"Not very well. You need to try harder." He reached to touch her arm. Hermione all but leapt backward.

"Don't touch me."

"Look, we all went through things during the war. Bad things happen—"

"Bad things happened?! To all of us? From what I recall you sat in a fucking house for most of the war," Hermione snarled, completely and thoroughly loosing her temper.

Sirius' eyes flashed with anger. She saw his fingers curl into a fist. It was the first time she could remember seeing any emotion actually reach his eyes. They were usually flat, as lifeless as the buttons sewed on a stuffed animal's face.

_"Stop making a scene,"_ the voice said.

Hermione lowered her voice but didn't shut up. "Remember this, if _I_ have a part to play, so do you. I'm a hero. You're an extra. I could probably slit your throat and all those officials in there would just applaud and pin another Order of Merlin to my chest. Anything to keep up appearances. Don't forget it. Don't touch me. Don't talk to me. Don't even look at me. From here on out, I'm a ghost to you." Hermione spun around and stalked off into the night without a look back.

_"Well, that went well."_

Hermione took a deep breath and kept walking. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't really relish the idea of returning to Hogwarts. The whole place was haunted for her.

If she walked into the Great Hall she remembered how she felt the first time she saw it, walking up to the Sorting Hat.

If she walked down the grand staircase she saw Fenrir savaging Lavender during that final battle.

If she walked into her classroom she heard Severus' voice, _"I can teach you how to bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses. I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death."_

And so where was she to go?

Not back to the party, certainly. And it wasn't as if she could go home. Her home was gone. Her parents, now Monica and Wendell, were still in Australia with no idea they had a daughter.

She could walk onto any street, into any establishment, and someone was bound to recognize her.

And yet… she was all alone.

She literally could not think of one person she could talk to.

Hermione felt tears burning behind her eyes.

"Stupid, ridiculous girl," she hissed under her breath, swiping at her eyes. She was not going to cry.

_"Maybe it would have been better if—"_

_"If what?"_

_"You know."_

"Nope. No," Hermione said aloud, louder than she meant to. She shook herself, trying to physically dislodge the thought. She felt her cheeks heat with shame. She had never once thought that she would have been better off dead.

Not when Bellatrix stood over her at Malfoy Manor.

Not when she knelt over Severus and knew that she was not going to be able to save him.

Not when she stood over all the dead at Hogwarts as the smoke cleared.

Not when she woke up, night after night, screaming until her throat felt like it was bleeding.

And now here it was. She supposed it had been lurking all along but she had never _seen_ it. Was this the thing she saw in her eyes? In Harry's?

Her eyes prickled again, stinging and watering. How dare she think she'd be better off? How _dare_ she? When so many others were dead. She was lucky to be here, to be a hero, to be a survivor.

Hermione took a deep breath, pushing the tears, the urge to scream, the "better if," pushing all of it, down inside her. She pushed it as deep down as she could, holding it there as if she could drown it.

"Right, no more of that!" Hermione mumbled through the tightness in her throat. She could still feel it though. Buried but not dead.

She knew it was too fresh, that it would come back if she didn't do something. Being alone seemed like a bad idea. However, being Hermione Granger in a public place seemed like an even worse idea.

Hermione paused in a darkened doorway, glanced around, and then cast a glamor over herself. Magic rushed across her skin, her hair frizzing a bit with the electricity of it. She could feel the magic sort of humming around her, but wasn't concerned. Plenty of people went around wearing glamors _before_ the war not to mention now, in the aftermath.

Hermione walked down a main thoroughfare, stopped before the first bar that had patrons but wasn't elbow to elbow with them, and slipped inside, giving her reflection a quick check on the way in. Gone was the curly haired know it all. In her place a rather nondescript girl with shoulder length rust colored hair straight as a pin. There were even a smattering of freckles around her nose.

She weaved across the dimly lit floor, relishing how patrons' eyes slid right off her. They looked at her and lost interest immediately. How fantastic. How exhilarating. For the first time in a long, long time, Hermione felt like she could breathe in public.

_Why haven't we been doing this all along?_

Hermione slid onto a barstool and actually enjoyed being ignored by the bartender. So much better than being fawned over. If Hermione Granger, _the_ Hermione Granger, were sitting here at least one person would have insisted on buying her a drink and toasting her good health by now. How refreshing to have a moment to think, to get to choose her own drink.

Not that she was here to drink. She'd have one, to blend in. No, she was here to be around people without being noticed. To let their conversations wash over her and keep her from her own thoughts. Distract her for just a moment.

This was far better than going back to Hogwarts and trying to both not think and not sleep… or going back to Hogwarts and finding a howler from Ginny and Harry. Merlin, had she _really_ threatened to kill Sirius?

_"Yep, but in your defense he was being an arse."_

Somehow she wasn't sure Harry would see it that way.

"Can I get you something?" The bartender asked without really looking at her. He only had eyes for the cute blonde at the end of the bar, which was perfectly fine with Hermione.

"An old fashioned."

He turned away without comment. Hermione propped her chin on her hand and tried not to think. A hard task for her. Instead she eavesdropped.

"I don't know what he sees in her."

"Must be something. He _married_ her."

"They were young. People can fall out of love."

"You're delusional if you think he's ever going to leave her."

"He says he—"

"They all say that."

"Excuse me, were you waiting for someone?"

"What—?" Hermione started to turn to see who was talking to her, at the same time the bartender slid her drink across the bar top, sloshing a bit over the rim. She gripped the glass to steady it.

"I think someone's left a note for you." She turned to face the voice, a man, confusion washing over her. At first she thought that he was going to offer to buy her, even the anonymous her, a drink.

"Sorry, what? A note?"

"Yes, are you HJG?" Hermione felt her skin go cold. She went very still.

"I—"

"Its got to be you. Only red head in here. A bloke left this for you at the door. I hope you aren't being stood up." He held out a piece of paper. Hermione took it tentatively, as if he were offering her a poisonous snake that may or may not have been dead.

"Umm, sorry, thank you," she said weakly. He, gave her a grim look as if her peculiar behavior was merely distress at being stood up. He turned and headed back toward the door.

Hermione dropped the the letter on the bar, droplets from her drink soaking into the corner, turning it translucent. She just stared at it. Hands palm down, framing the letter. She stared at it as if she could see through the paper and know what it said. She kept still as if a sudden movement might cause it to leap off the bar and bite her on the nose.

She stared at it for a solid minute, it felt like the whole bar had gone dead silent around her. The whole world narrowed down to that white envelope with HJG scratched on the outside at a slat, leaning slightly toward the right. Nothing else.

She gathered her Gryffindor courage, threw back her drink in one very unladylike gulp, and tore the letter open.


	8. Chapter 8

HJG,

Breathe.

Inhale through your nose. Deeply. Fill your lungs

Hold it.

Count to three.

Exhale through your mouth. _Slowly_. Concentrate on relaxing your face. The tension in your jaw, the tightness in your forehead, let it go.

Do it again.

And again.

Until you're confident you won't faint.

Remember, if you faint that anonymous glamour you're wearing goes away, so keep breathing.

I'm not going to waste a lot of time trying to convince you who wrote this. Just think of all the times you got an assignment back, notes scratched across the parchment. I know you poured over my feedback, my criticisms, always on the quest for that elusive "outstanding,"... so you recognize this spiky, barely legible scrawl.

Your mind may be trying to convince you otherwise, but deep down you know.

Breathe again.

Normally, with you, I don't think I'd have to state the obvious but since you've had a bit of a shock, I will.

I am alive.

I received your letters.

I want to see you.

If you will do me the favor of meeting me in private, as public spaces really aren't ideal for either of us, I'll be waiting at the Falkland Hotel. Room 902.

From the "after" life,  
S

* * *

Hermione refolded the letter and did the breathing thing... again.

And again.

It took several repetitions before the world came fully back into focus, a rush of bright colors and noises.

She couldn't help it. She unfolded the letter and read it through a second time. Just to be sure she wasn't having some sort of hallucination brought on by stress.

Maybe her drink had been drugged?

_"You were handed the letter before you drank anything, genius."_

Oh, right.

She ran her thumb across the HJG. It did look very much like his handwriting… but that could be faked, right? Someone could have intercepted her letters and was now playing out this elaborate prank or hoax or whatever.

Had to be.

Severus Snape was dead. She had seen him die.

_"Did you?"_

Hermione rubbed her forehead, hard, as if she could scrub away the thoughts as one would an ink smudge. She didn't want to think about that night; she was only willing to skim it at a surface level. She hovered just above the memory of the final battle… but yes, she was pretty sure he was dead.

Although, pretty sure probably didn't count.

She sighed.

_"You're going to that hotel room, right?"_

Yes, yes, of course she was. She was Hermione freakin' Granger, and while Gryffindor courage may have been failing her of late, she was still a know-it-all, and she would never, _**ever**_ be able to rest easy if she didn't get to the bottom of this.

15 minutes later, she was standing in front of the rather nondescript Falkland Hotel. It was a gray rectangle that jutted up into the sky, coming to a point at the top, stabbing the soft underbelly of the night. It was dotted with windows, at perfect intervals, mostly lit, like a Christmas tree strung with lights.

A green and gold striped awning invited her into the depths.

Hermione stood on the sidewalk, head tilted back, eyeing the ninth floor with trepidation. She stared at it hard, as if she could somehow intimidate the very building into giving up its secrets.

Finally she leveled her gaze at the revolving glass door, squared her shoulders, and strode inside.

A wizened creature, that may or may not have been a goblin, eyed her suspiciously as she clicked and clacked across the marble floor. Soft music tinkled from somewhere nearby. Tasteful decor dotted the lobby, islands in the sea of the gleaming floor.

Hermione forced herself to slow down, to keep her steps measured and casual.

_"You've never managed to be casual. Not once in your life,"_ the voice in her head snorted. It sounded very snide, and dare she say it, Snape-like.

Once ensconced in the elevator, mercifully alone, Hermione let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. She slouched against the elevator's far wall, watching the numbers tick up and up as the box climbed. The higher she rose, the more she felt like sliding to the floor. She bit her lower lip and made herself do the breathing thing again. She clutched her wand tightly, digging her fingernails into her palm. She squeezed so tightly that her knuckles ached, but she was barely aware of it.

The blurry reflection of her glamour stared back at her from the shiny elevator doors. Hermione Granger, female leg of the Golden Trio, couldn't be seen heading off to a hotel room and so she had kept the glamor. Besides, whomever was waiting for her in room 902 had already "made her", as they said in spy books. The man that had brought her the letter had been looking for a redhead.

_"That means he followed you to the bar."_

Hermione gritted her teeth, trying to prepare herself.

_"So... who do you want it to be?"_

That was a good question. One for which Hermione, shockingly, didn't have an answer. Before she had much time to think about it, the elevator ground to a smooth halt and the doors slide open soundlessly.

Hermione stepped out onto plush neutrally colored carpet. Her heels sunk in. The doors slide shut behind her, sealing her in the blessedly deserted hallway. She listened, hard, straining her ears, but heard nothing except for maybe, distantly, the hum of a vacuum cleaner.

She noticed herself noticing all of the little details around her. The fact that the air smelled like sandalwood instead of cleaner or cigarette smoke the way most hotels did. The muted tones of the art on the walls. The sounds, or lack-thereof, coming from each room. She was hyper aware of it all, slipping into fight or flight mode, survival mode.

It had been like this during the war. She could still smell the woods, their damp decay, from all that time on the run. Without thinking about it, she kicked off her heels, cast a quick shrinking spell, and tucked them into her purse. Just in case she had to make a quick escape.

She padded softly down the hallway, toes curling against the soft carpet. Body tense, coiled.

Hermione breathed, trying to bring herself down at least a smidge. This worked up, she'd hex any poor sap that wandered into the hallway looking for the vending machines.

She paused outside of room 902. She could feel wards buzzing against her skin. Whomever was inside already knew she was here. There was no chance at taking advantage of the element of surprise. So she knocked, the rap of knuckles shattering the silence of the hallway.

She heard nothing from within but suddenly the door was open and he was standing in front of her, half obscured by the door but still, right there.

_Severus Snape._

Hermione opened her mouth to say… something. Maybe "hi." Maybe a curse word. Probably a question, or more likely a thousand questions.

"_You don't know if it's really him, and you can't see his other hand,"_ the voice in her head said in a barely intelligible rush.

Hermione felt the blood drain out of her face, and so, instead of saying any of those other things, what came out of her mouth was "Stupefy!"

Her timing was not fast enough. She saw a flash of magic as her charm was blocked.

Logically, the person that looked like Severus Snape had every right to defend himself against her attack. Had Hermione been able to think clearly she would have recognized that. However, she was thinking anything but clearly. Her mind interpreted the block as offensive rather than defensive.

Backpedaling from the door, she threw spells in rapid succession while trying to pull herself together enough to apparate, preferably without splinching herself. Her heart pounded against her breastbone and the scar on her arm burned savagely. She was not going to be taken or touched.

"Desist at once, Ms. Granger!" the Severus lookalike hissed, sounding very much like her former Potions professor.

_"Who is dead,"_ the voice in her head reminded her, just in case she had forgotten in the last 30 seconds.

She staggered back against the hallway wall, mind still trying to make sense of what was happening.

It looked so very much like him.

"_Polyjuice_," the voice whispered.

"Polyjuice doesn't work when the person is dead," he said, as if he had read her mind.

"Then how…?"

She didn't finish the question. The war had changed her. This was not a time for questions. She raised her wand to hex him again.

"Ms. Granger, Hermione, you once brought me a cup of tea in the library with just a splash of milk in it. In fact you stopped reading your book, _Sense and Sensibility_, to go make said cup of tea. You were wearing a dark green sweater, more like a tunic, really, and black ballet flats.… how could anyone else know all of that?" he reasoned. He spoke softly as if she were a wild animal that was either going to attack him or flee, which wasn't too far from the truth. He stood in the doorway, not moving toward her, and lowered his wand slowly.

"You…"

"Were a right git about it," he supplied.

"Well, yes, but anyone could have guessed that," she said weakly, feeling as if the world had titled and only her back pressed firmly against the wall was keeping her upright.

He smirked. It actually touched his eyes. "Indeed."

"I don't…. You're dead."

"No."

"I'm dreaming… or mad."

"You're awake. I can't attest to your mental state though."

Hermione realized her hands were shaking. She gripped her wand tighter. She didn't think she could move away from the wall. It was as if she were standing on a very high ledge. One move and she'd slip. She'd go over the edge and plunge to her death.

"I'm not—"

"Hermione," he paused to see if she would protest him using her first name, "I know this is a shock, but it is real. I'm alive. Think about it. Think about who I am and what you're going through—can't you understand why I might not want anyone to know I survived the war?"

She nodded slowly, the tang of adrenaline still in her mouth but beginning to just slightly subside.

"Please, I swear on my life, I mean you no harm. Will you come inside the room? We shouldn't be standing out here."

He took a step backward into the room. Hermione suddenly remembered that they were indeed in a semi-public place. She looked up the hallway but saw no one.

"Hermione?"

She turned her focus back to him, surprised she had even been able to look away long enough to check the hall. He took another step back, wand still lowered but fully visible. She swallowed hard and took a step forward. After all, he had said please, and even though that seemed like a very un-Snape like thing to say, he knew so very many details about that afternoon in the library.

She followed him, Severus Snape, into room 902 and shut the door.

* * *

_AUTHOR'S NOTE_

_Happy Hump Day! Sorry if this chapter seems a little choppy. Unless you live in a bomb shelter, you probably know that the world is a little crazy right now (and by a little I mean full on psychosis). In addition to all of the "outside" stuff, my own life has been a little chaotic. Let's just say work is extra awesome right now. Any way... instead of holding back for another day or two and trying to polish this up, I wanted to stick to the Wednesday deadline. _

_So... we're getting close to the end. I'm still feeling like this is a 10, maybe 11, chapter story. I think this story is going to stay at a "T" rating (apologies if you were waiting for something else); however, something interesting has happened. As I was working on this chapter, I smelled something... and it was a sequel. Yep, I think we're headed to a followup story line that **will **be more mature. I'm marinating on it. More details soon. _

_Thanks to everyone who takes the time to read this. I hope it provides a momentary escape from your day. _

_Stay safe, and I'll see you next Wednesday! _


	9. Chapter 9

_AUTHOR'S NOTE _

_Another Wednesday, another chapter. So I really wanted to experience this chapter from both Severus' and Hermione's POV so I did something I'm not normally a huge fan of—I switched POVs multiple times within one chapter. Hopefully it works for you. I called it out each time I made a switch to cut down on confusion. _

_Shoutout to mundy - thanks for bolstering my delicate writer's ego regarding the last chapter. I appreciate you. And shoutout to __ sljh85 - thanks for reading and reviewing this story and my other story, The Bucket List. I hope to get back to that one soon. __Unfortunately, I've found that I can only write one story at a time. _

_Any way... enough of that. __Enjoy!_

* * *

SEVERUS

As much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, it was hard to take his eyes off of her. Looking away was like turning his back on a rabid grizzly bear that had just emerged from hibernation.

He could _feel_ her behind him, muscles tense, magic barely contained. If he so much as stubbed his toe on the carpet she would hex him into next year.

And he didn't know if he'd be able to stop her.

Earlier, at the door, if she had been a fraction of a second faster, she would have disarmed him. He didn't recall her dueling skills at Hogwarts as anything other than mediocre, but obviously, the war had been an excellent tutor. She was good, very good.

And with his back turned, she might even be better than him.

He tried to force all of the tension from his body as he watched her reflection in the window, saw the way her eyes constantly scanned the room and the way her fingers flexed around her wand.

She stopped behind one of the chairs in the sitting area, using it as a shield. He walked to within arms length of the window before turning to face her.

They stood in silence for a long moment, staring at each other warily. Two people who weren't quite sure how they got to be here or what was coming next.

"Would you mind? The glamour…." He couldn't talk to her when she looked like… well, not like herself. He guessed he needed to see her to believe her.

He had followed her from the engagement party, had heard her spat with Sirius. In fact, he had nearly applauded when she had laid into him, but he hadn't gotten a good look at her. He had stayed in the shadows, trailing behind her until she entered the bar.

"Oh!" She seemed slightly startled and embarrassed as if he had caught her indulging in a bad habit. She quickly vanquished it, and there was Hermione Granger… although not quite the girl he remembered.

She was pale and… gaunt. That was the only word for it. She had never been large, but before, as his student, he would have described her as healthy, physically capable, somewhere between rangy and athletic. Now her cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut him.

Her unruly hair had been twisted up into a complicated updo, but the curls refused to be tamed. Spiral strands hung around her face, caressing her jaw line. Against the nearly translucent hue of her skin, her hair looked darker and richer then he remembered it. Her eyes seemed as large as the dinner plates Molly Weasley served her brood on, and they were an impossible shade of honey.

Severus swallowed. Hard. She was… striking, a sort of dangerous beauty. She seemed both delicate and razor sharp, as if the slightest tough would either make her crumble or slice right through your skin.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, and he realized he had been staring at her, without saying anything, for far longer than was appropriate.

"Hermione, I swear that I mean you no harm. Here, look." He sat his wand on the windowsill and lowered himself into one of the room's chairs. As he relaxed into the seat, he thought he saw her shoulders drop just a smidge, a tiny thread of tension slackening.

* * *

HERMIONE

His trust did more than anything else could have to reassure her. Slowly she came out from behind the chair, trailing a hand along its slightly scratchy fabric. With a flick of her wand she conjured tea and all the proper accoutrements, a conciliatory gesture.

She perched on the edge of the chair opposite him, well out of arms length, with her feet pressed firmly into the carpet, ready to spring up at a second's notice. She forced herself to place her wand on the armrest of the chair and move her hand away.

His eyes bore into her, through her flesh, straight into her soul. She shifted under the weight of his gaze, wanting to look away from him but not quite daring. She resisted the urge to fidget, to brush the hair out of her face or straighten her sleeves.

"I—I'm sorry about the letters," she said, more to break the silence than anything.

After all, what was she supposed to say? Fancy meeting you here? You look good for a man that's supposed to be dead? Nothing her brain could dredge up seemed quite appropriate; although, in her defense, Hermione was certain Miss Manners had never covered a situation quite like this.

"Are you?" It was a genuine question with none of the biting sarcasm he had routinely directed at her during her school days.

Hermione bit her lower lip and truly thought about it before answering. Choosing her words carefully, she said, "I'm sorry if they… caused you pain."

She thought she saw his jaw tighten and a quick jerk of his head that may have been a nod. She wasn't sure.

Overall, he looked well. His skin was still pale but not nearly as sallow as it had been during his time at Hogwarts. His hair, which she had never believed was really greasy, still shone, as lustrous as a Raven's wing. He somehow seemed taller and more open.

Hermione realized that this was the _real_ Severus and it was very possible this was the very first time she was actually seeing him. Before, he had always had to wear a mask, measure every look and gesture and word.

Hermione leaned forward and fixed herself a cup of tea, eyes half on the task at hand and half on him. She was glad for a task to distract herself with and even more pleased that her hands didn't shake while she was doing it. She wasn't sure where to go from here, what to say.

She assumed he was here to demand she stop pestering him with letters… although why he couldn't just owl to say that she hadn't the foggiest idea. Well, okay, she had some idea. A letter from her supposedly dead former potion's professor probably wouldn't have had quite the impact as sitting across from him having tea was.

"Are you here to tell me off?"

"Tell you off?" He repeated slowly as if she had spoken in a foreign language.

"For pestering you."

"Ah, no. I—well, to be honest, I came to ask if you want to talk about it?"

"With you?" Hermione asked, mimicking the way he'd responded to her all that time ago in the library. It wasn't said with any real venom though and definitely not a sneer. It was more a defensive jest for her to hide behind, a few words to stall for time, for space in which to think. This moment was already surreal enough without adding a nice and empathetic version of Severus Snape to the mix.

"I don't see anyone else offering," he replied calmly, picking up the dialogue as if they had a script to read from.

Hermione took her eyes fully off of him for the first time since entering the hotel room. She glanced down at her hands, which were wrapped so tightly around the tea cup that she was surprised it hadn't shattered. She squeezed her eyes shut and made herself breathe.

"Why?"

There was a long drawn out moment of silence and she thought that perhaps he wasn't going to answer her at all when finally he said, voice soft and rough like velvet rubbed backward across your skin, "Because you mourned me."

She raised her eyes back to his. His eyes were deep and dark, pools of espresso, a night sky without stars. She wanted to protest, to tell him plenty of people had mourned him, to tell him that he was every bit the hero she was—more even, but she didn't. The old Hermione would have. She would have assured him everything was alright, that everyone loved him, whether it was true or not.

She pressed her lips into a tight line and swallowed those words because the truth was there were still plenty of people who thought he was a traitor and deserved to be dead. There were others who accepted his role but were glad he wasn't in the picture any more. Hermione had learned that the Wizarding world preferred its heroes and villains to be cut and dried. Black and white. No shades in between.

* * *

SEVERUS

He watched emotions chase across her face, flash behind her eyes like sparks from a fire. He waited patiently, letting her sift through whatever his words had evoked for her.

"You don't owe me anything for that," she finally said, tone hard and resolute.

"No," he agreed, "but your letters made me want to see you, to try to help, if I could. I'm sure this will come as a great shock to you, but talking about feelings with other people is not my strong suit. You may leave this conversion even more desolate than before."

That earned him a a small but genuine smile, which she covered quickly with the back of her hand. To his surprise, Severus found that he liked making her mouth quirk up at the corners.

"I—I think I would like to talk about it. Even with you. I'm just not sure… where does one even begin?" Hermione confessed, brow furrowed as if she were trying to work through a particularly tricky Arithmancy problem.

And there was the crux of the problem. While her letters had called to him, pulled him out of seclusion, he didn't exactly know how to go about this either. He wanted to help her, but how? Should he hold her hand and tell her everything was going to be alright? Should he offer her some Dreamless Sleep? How did one comfort a war veteran, a young female veteran at that?

Obviously, he could understand some of her experiences, having been an active participant in the war himself but he knew it wasn't an apples to apples comparison. He thought about her letters and tried to hone in on something she had said.

"You have nothing to be sorry for… that day in the library, I mean. You did nothing wrong. In fact, it was probably the nicest anyone had been to me in a long time. Don't dwell on it, Hermione."

"I was an idiot. Even if you had decided to trust me, what could I have possible said to help you? I thought I knew so much about how everything would turn out…."

"You were a child, naive and inexperienced," he countered.

"Well, either way, I doubt I could have said anything useful to you. It's a different story now. I know plenty about nightmares." She tried to make it light, but her voice tightened around her words.

"When was the last time you had a good night's sleep?"

She actually snorted in reply, as if he were being ridiculous.

"Who knows. First we were on the run. Then, when the war was over, there was still so much to do. Tending to the wounded, the dead. Rebuilding. Celebrating. And then there were the nightmares."

He noticed how a note of disgust crept into her tone when she said "celebrating."

"What are they about?"

"There's only one. Over and over. Malfoy Manor." She was twisting her hands together in her lap.

"You don't have to tell me, Hermione. We can talk about whatever you like."

"No, I—you know what happened there, right?"

"I know you were there, with Bellatrix, so I can guess some of the details but no, I don't _know_ what happened."

She gave him a fiery, sort of impatient look and deflated a little in the chair before straightening herself back up, like a puppet jerking to attention when someone pulls its strings.

"Right, sorry, it's just… something so major happens to you. Something that changes your life, and for some reason you just think _everyone_ must know all about it. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. You can tell me 'all about it' if you want. Or you can tell me just the broad strokes. I'll listen to as little or as much as you want to share."

She studied him. Her eyes seared him the same way they had that day in the library.

"I—I can't. I shouldn't have…. Look, I'm glad to see you. Really. I'm… it's still sinking in that you aren't dead. And obviously, I won't tell anyone. You deserve to be whoever you want to be. But you don't need to… it isn't necessary for you to listen to me."

He could practically see her folding herself up. Packing away her emotions, strengthening her shields.

"Hermione, stop, we already established that I don't owe you anything. I'm here because I chose to be—"

"You've suffered enough," she cut him off, "Your suffering is so much greater than mine. You almost died. People think you're a traitor. Just about everyone I know lost someone—lovers, brothers, children, parents. I can't… I need to find a way to stop feeling sorry for myself. So Bellatrix hurt me, scarred me. It's so much less than what others went through. And my parents are still alive… they don't know me, but they're out there, breathing, living. I'm in pain and I don't want to be, I don't deserve to be. That isn't—what I mean is that what happened to me is a drop in the bucket compared to others, compared to you, and I just don't know why I can't be stronger—"

Her words came faster and faster, crashing into each other, just like the words in her letters. Her breath hitched. Her eyes shone with tears. He could feel the rawness of her pain, he could feel her magic pulse against him, agitated by her distress.

Without thinking, in a fluid movement, Severus rose from his chair, crossed over to her, and pulled her up into his arms, the same way he would have snatched someone from the waters of the Black Lake if they were drowning. He wrapped his arms around her, pressing her to him. Hugging her tightly.

For a moment, her body was tense as a steel beam, inflexible and ungiving. He thought she might wandlessly hex him or even knee him in the bullocks, but then she broke. Hermione Granger melted against him as if he were the only thing keeping her from sinking right through the floor.

And then she started to cry.


	10. Chapter 10

_AUTHOR'S NOTE_

_It's Wednesday somewhere, right? _

_As always, a heartfelt 'thank you' to everyone that took the time to review. You inspire me and keep me plucking away at this! Well, this one is a **long **one... so let's get to it, shall we? _

* * *

HERMIONE

Hermione had long known that her brain worked differently than other people's. For one, it moved at a much faster pace. Her mind was capable of covering long distances before others had even comprehended that there as a problem. It was't just speed that set her apart, her brain was also capable of performing complex acrobatic tricks that others perceived as almost, well, magical. However, even she was surprised at how her mind reacted in the seconds after Snape seized her shoulders and pulled her from her chair.

First, there was confusion. She had barely registered him moving before he was in front of her. Then there was fear. Intense, stomach-dropping-through-the-floor, mouth-drying fear. A burst of adrenaline rocketed through her and as he was pulling her to his chest, hands squeezing her shoulders hard enough to bruise, Hermione thought of no less than 10 ways she could hurt him and escape. Everything from head butting him in his oversized nose to actually biting him like a wild animal. Not only did she _think_ of these things, she actually saw herself doing them, visualized how each scenario would play out.

And then his hands were sliding down her shoulders, pulling her closer, and wrapping around her. She was pressed to him, cheek against the smooth fabric of his shirt, engulfed in the smell of him, which was very much the smell of Severus Snape. Up until that moment, she hadn't realized she _knew_ what her former potion's professor smelt like but apparently she did—herbs, parchment, heat, like a boiling cauldron. And something musky, undeniably male.

Her heart was pounding so hard that she felt dizzy. Through the haze of adrenaline, which was still assuring her she could break free from him long enough to grab her wand, some part of Hermione realized he was _hugging_ her.

A rather serious hugging at that. Not a perfunctory shoulder squeeze, hips apart type embrace. He was holding onto her as if he had just plucked her from the jaws of imminent death.

Hermione couldn't remember the last time anyone had held her like that. Her parents, maybe? It felt… gods, it felt good. The fear began to ebb. She let herself relax into him, greedy for the comfort that he was for some unfathomable reason, offering her.

As the fear pulled back, it left something else in its wake. Like the ocean's tide leaving behind bits of debris, seaweed and cracked shells, Hermione found herself left with sharp, fragmented emotions. Her brain whirled on, trying to calm her, trying to smooth over the cracks that had been exposed.

_"Be strong. Be strong—just a little longer,"_ her mind whispered, over and over. That's what it always said when Hermione was really spiraling. She had no idea what "just a little longer meant." And she couldn't. She just… couldn't.

And it was around that moment she realized she was crying.

Her cheeks were wet and she could feel a pressure building in her head, her sinuses closing up. Hermione sniffled, trying to pull the emotion back inside of her and lock it up. She was getting Severus' shirt all wet, and she was surprised he hand't pushed her away yet. Surely, this was more than he had bargained for.

She clenched her hands into fists, trying to regain her composure. She began to list all of the ingredients for Polyjuice in her head, in reverse alphabetical order, to stop herself from thinking about anything else.

Seeming to sense her emotional subterfuge, Severus hugged her harder, pressing her to him with a sense of urgency.

"Stop," he whispered, and she felt his voice rumble through her, "Let it out. Just… let it all out, Hermione."

If he had said he liked to wear women's shoes, Hermione didn't think she could have been more surprised.

First off, what he said was so… out of the ordinary. Immediately after the war, Hermione had found herself bursting into tears for no apparent reason on numerous occasions. Any little thing was likely to cause her to start sobbing like the world was coming to an end. And every time it happened whomever was around was quick to assure her that everything was quite alright. She was reminded, with what felt like growing impatience as time wore on, that she was alive and safe and generally okay.

It left her feeling like her tears were not only inconvenient but somehow made her ungrateful. And so she had made herself stop crying, the way one gives up a nasty habit like smoking, at least in front of other people. The fact that her once surly professor was holding her and telling her it was okay to cry, encouraging her to do so, in fact, was the cherry on top of this surreal sundae.

Second off, it was the tone of his words. Hermione had always suspected that Severus was a person who felt very deeply. After all, look what his feelings for a single person had driven him to do. However, she had never suspected that any great feeling (other than disdain) would be directed at her. But the way he told her to let it out, the way he said her name, it was so… gentle, yes, but more than that, it was threaded with empathy. The tone of his voice acknowledged that everything was not okay.

Hermione had always been a "good girl," quick to obey authority figures, and while she knew the war had changed her, made her less likely to simply comply with the wishes or demands of others, everything in her gave way to him. She cried.

And for the first time since the war began (and perhaps for the first time in her entire life) she didn't feel like she was being caught red handed doing something shameful or dirty.

* * *

SEVERUS

She was shivering, fine tremors ran through her body like electrical currents.

And she was crying.

There was a time in his life when Severus had taken a certain perverse pride in being able to make a student cry… but he wasn't sure how he felt about this. Part of him was glad she was crying, she obviously needed to. Another part of him had no idea what to do now.

The time between getting her letters and pulling her into his arms had not given him any great insights on how to comfort women. He thought it best to just be patient, to stand still and let her cry.

After a few minutes of just holding her, he carefully separated her from his now quite damp shirt and appraised her. Strands of hair were stuck to her flushed cheeks. Her eyes were red rimmed but bright, burning was probably a more appropriate adjective. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, a grim sentry baring any words from escaping, and tears slowly slid down her face, pausing on her jaw before plunging to their death. She would not meet his eyes.

Severus didn't know how to comfort her, but he did know that were the roles reversed, he would not enjoy the heated face, stuffy nose, and general feeling of being a mess that went hand-in-hand with crying. And he didn't think Hermione, the overachieving control freak, would either.

Severus took her by the hand, trying not to overthink it. It would have felt odd to grab _anyone's_ hand, but to be guiding the Golden Girl of the Golden Trio through a hotel room? Talk about bizarre. Not ten minutes earlier, he would have bet all of the galleons to his name that this was not the situation he would find himself in. In fact he would have snorted at the ridiculousness of the mere suggestion that he would be holding hands with Granger.

His surprise only deepened when he felt her fingers twitch against his, gripping him tighter. He led her to the loveseat and encouraged her to sit.

"I'll be right back," Severus assured her. She made no reply, and again, while there was a time he would have taken great pleasure in seeing her silent, in this situation it frankly, unnerved him. It was like she had suddenly burnt out, as if she had cried out her soul and now there was just a pliant shell.

He returned from the bathroom with a glass of water and a cool flannel. He pressed the glass into her hand and watched her stare at the clear liquid for a long moment, as if she were divining her fate in tea leaves, before finally drinking. He watched the pale column of her throat work. When the glass was empty, he plucked it from her fingers and set it aside.

"Hermione, if you don't want me to touch you, you can say so," Severus warned her, keeping his voice low and even. The way he would talk to a dog that was corned and likely to bite him. He clearly remembered how she had reacted to Sirius reaching for her earlier in the night. Physical contact was obviously a touchy subject for her.

He perched next to her on the loveseat, angling his body toward her so that their knees were nearly touching. Moving slowly, so as not to startle her, Severus reached out and tilted her head up. He pushed the hair out of her face, peeling the strands off of her flushed, damp cheeks and tucking them behind her ears. He couldn't help noticing that her hair was as soft as satin against his calloused fingers. He pressed the cool flannel against her eyes, holding it for a moment, to help with the puffiness.

"You don't have to… you could use a spell," Hermione said huskily, her voice hoarse. Something in him relaxed when he heard her speak.

"Do you want me to use a spell?" He pulled the flannel away from her eyes. She finally looked at him, face still tear streaked. Her eyes darted away and she shook her head.

Severus began to gently wipe her face. She held still and perhaps, although it may have been his imagination, leaned into him a little bit. It suddenly came to him that she was, whether she knew it or not, starved for affection. Something in Severus could recognize that because he too had spent the better part of his life starved for the exact same nourishment. And it appeared that her life was so bereft of any such human closeness that she was willing, albeit _perhaps_ subconsciously, to seek it out from a man she must have, at least once upon a time, despised.

Satisfied that he had removed all traces of tears from her face, Severus sat back and studied her closely for a long moment. She was busy studying her hands, which she had twisted in her lap, fingers twined into a complicated knot.

"Hermione, I am by no means a shining example of mental health—"

She snorted. It surprised him enough to draw out a dark chuckle.

"Well now—"

"I'm sorry," she whispered, quickly, still not looking at him.

"I would never have you apologize for speaking the truth… or for agreeing with me. I quite enjoy being told I'm right."

Her eyes darted up to his and she bit her lower lip to hold in a smile. Severus very nearly smiled in return. Instead, he settled for looking less intimidating.

"As I was saying, while I may not be the best role model in this situation, I do believe you are functioning under 3 incorrect premises. As a former educator, as well as someone who has built a life on incorrect premises, I feel I would be remiss if I didn't at least try to help you work out the error of your calculations. So I'm going to tell you some things tonight, plant a few seeds, so to speak. I don't expect you to take them as gospel, but do turn the full force of your indomitable curiosity on them. Turn them around in your mind, examine them from all sides… perhaps they'll take root."

He was pleased, and slightly amused, to see that she was still as eager to learn as ever. At the mention of knowledge about to be bestowed she sat up a little straighter and her eyes finally held his.

* * *

HERMIONE

She braced herself, certain he was about to suggest a nice trip to the Janus Thickey Ward was in order. Hermione forced herself to hold his eyes, to try to be open to whatever criticism he was about to heap upon her, knowing she likely deserved it.

After all, what could be said about the mental state of a witch who broke down in the arms of a man she didn't _really_ know? (Not to mention writing letters to said man as if he were a great loss to her life.) And if all of that wasn't bad enough, what kind of well adjusted witch allowed said acquaintance, whom she had just tried to hex 30 minutes earlier, to wash her face as if she were a helpless child?

Hermione was coming to realize that she was quite broken inside. No one else seemed to have noticed. At least not yet. However, her brain had always found the root of the problem faster than others.

"One, you seem to have acquired a very distorted view of pain. You see pain as a limited quantity, as if it were a pie with only so much to go around and if you take too big of a slice someone else will have to go without." Hermione opened her mouth to protest but he silenced her with a stern look that she was certain was a holdover from his days at Hogwarts. "Sadly, that is not how pain works. There is plenty for everyone, an incomprehensible amount. There is more pain in the world than there is water in all the oceans. You feeling pain does not prevent someone else from also feeling it."

"That's not—" He gave her that look again and Hermione clamped her mouth shut, teeth working on her lower lip.

"Two, you seem to believe that you deserve none of this mythical pain pie you have created. Just because you did not die or go stark raving mad or watch anyone you truly loved be tortured and murdered does not mean that you do not get to feel pain…."

Hermione pressed her hands against her face, blocking out the sight of him. She inhaled deeply and held her breath until she could hear her pulse pounding in her ears. She let it out with a woosh. Her eyes burned, prickled. She did not want to hear this. She didn't know what she wanted… but not this.

Severus reached out and took one of her hands, aligning it with his, pressing their fingertips together.

"Pain is not a cookie cutter, Hermione. Pain is unique to each person—as unique as the whirls on your fingertips. You suffered in the war. In ways that were entirely unique to your experience. Just as my pain was unique to my experience. Would you deny me my pain? Because I lived, because I lost no one I loved, do I not deserve to feel pain or sadness? Worse, is it selfish of me to anything other than pure joy that I managed to survive?"

"Of course not," Hermione croaked, surprised by how tight her throat was. She sincerely hoped she was not crying again. She felt a sort of tingly numbness all over, as if maybe she were not exactly _in_ her body.

"Then why must you feel happy, feel lucky to be alive, and nothing else?"

"It's not the same thing…."

"Tell me how it's different. If it would help, I could assign you an essay. Shall we say twelve inches on why it is okay for me but not for you."

Hermione bit her lip so hard she was genuinely surprised to not taste blood. She couldn't answer him. Her brain sputtered, calculated, but came up with nothing.

"I don't know," she admitted, ignoring his snark.

"Then think about it. Three, you seem to blame yourself for all the horrors of the war while giving yourself credit for none of the good. And while I know you think very highly of yourself, Ms. Granger, you are not a goddess. You are not an omnipotent being that can control us mere mortals. The casualties of the war are not your fault."

"I feel like I could have… should have tried harder." To Hermione this was a simple statement of fact. She was the brightest witch of her age. She should have been able to do more, to save more people.

"What if Potter said that to you?" Severus pressed.

"I would hug him, hard, and tell him I loved him. I would ask him to tell me what he thought he did wrong, what he could have done differently."

"Fine. What did you do wrong? Confess your sins to me."

Hermione blinked back tears. Words lodged painfully in her throat, as if they were barbed creatures, embedding spikes into the soft tissue of her larynx.

"There are too many."

"Pick one."

"… my parents."

* * *

SEVERUS

The whole time he had been talking, he had been watching her closely, trying to determine if his words were hitting home or if she was going to melt down. He watched emotions chase across her face. He watched her build up walls that his words immediately toppled. He watched her struggle to collect the emotions spilling out and rebuild those walls before too much escaped.

Watching her, he knew that even her letters had been an act. Yes, she had meant the things she said, but she had still held back. She had played a role, even for a dead man. She had hinted at things, shown glimpses, but never thrown back the curtain entirely.

He didn't know what he had imagined her life to be like, but it wasn't this. Granted, in the days immediately following the war, he hadn't thought about her at all. But if he had been asked to speculate, he probably would have assumed her life had taken on a golden hue of glory. She was a hero whom was bright, beautiful, young, and loved. She would be surrounded by people that loved and admired her and want for nothing, except for perhaps a break from Potter and Weasley now and then, but who could blame her for that?

He nearly snorted at how far off base he would have been.

And frankly, it humbled and perhaps even scared him that someone this wounded had been sparing grief for the likes of him. She had found time to mourn him, to regret how she had treated him, when she apparently had the weight of the whole Wizarding World on her shoulders.

It made him want to save her. In her he saw some of himself. Wracked with guilt and grief, anger and pain, fear and fury… this was how very bad decisions got made. If he could help her thrive maybe it would redeem him? Did he still need redemption? He didn't know. He couldn't take his attention off of her long enough to analyze it, but the longer he was in this room with her the more he wanted to fix her.

"What about your parents?"

"I ruined their lives… not that they know it. I modified their memories to try to protect them during the war. I ripped their lives apart and created new ones for them. Without their consent. It was selfish… and worse, I didn't even do it right. It's irreversible. They'll never be my parents again."

"They're still alive?"

"Yes."

"Then you didn't _try_ to protect them. You **_did_** protect them. Hermione, if death eaters had gotten their hands on your parents, death would have been the very least of their worries."

"Maybe they wouldn't have… been caught by death eaters, I mean. I—there were other options, but I made the decision for them. I thought I knew best… and now there's no undoing it, no going back."

"Hermione, there are _always_ choices, but sometimes none of them are worth a damn. Sometimes every card you're dealt is a shade of gray. Sometimes you have to just pick the best of a bunch of really bad options. You shouldn't have had to make that decision. Someone else—an adult, should have helped you work through that. I'm sorry that you were forced to deal with that alone."

And he knew without asking that she was torturing herself with this. Thinking about it frequently, yes, but worse, he would have bet even more galleons that she routinely checked in on her parents. Without a doubt, he knew, she was keeping tabs on them and forcing herself to look at the 'mess' she had made.

"I meant all the things I wrote in the letters… about you. Are you happy now, wherever you are and whatever you're doing?"

The abrupt change of topic didn't throw him. Severus knew deflection when he saw it. He decided to let her get away with it for a moment.

"I'm not unhappy," he hedged.

"Do you sleep at night?"

"Mostly. Sometimes there are nightmares, phantom pains, but it's better now."

"I'm glad."

"But that doesn't mean it should be better for you. The war was the _end_ of something for me."

She seemed to consider this for a very long time. He watched her mull it over.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do now," she confessed.

"What do you want to do?" He had never seen the know-it-all look so confused by a question posed by a professor. "Hermione, you don't owe anyone, anything. You've done enough for the world for a lifetime. If you don't want to teach potions, don't. McGonagall will find someone else, the world will keep turning. If you don't want to watch Potter and Weasley self-destruct, don't. You standing by as a safety net may just enable them. They're used to you cleaning up after them. If you don't want to pose for Ministry photo ops, don't. Last I checked, refusing to have your photo taken wasn't punishable by The Kiss. Take it from me—you don't want to give up control of your future to any master, real or imagined."

"You think I'm being a martyr?"

Her sense of obligation ran so deep he knew that her mind was rejecting his words out of hand, the same way her immune system would attack germs.

"I think you are a very kind girl who wants _everyone_ to get a happy ending… even at the expense of her own. I think it's scary to be alone and to let people you care about either sink or swim of their own accord and so you do whatever is necessary to keep the train on the tracks, even if you have to throw yourself in front of said train."

"So a martyr, then?" Her voice teased but her eyes were hard, challenging.

"I believe they tell muggles on airplanes to secure their own oxygen mask before helping anyone else. You can't save _anyone_ if you're dead, Hermione. Save yourself first. Make yourself strong. Then you'll be able to help the people that _want_ help."

She said nothing so he pressed on. "Start tonight. What do you _want_ to do? Right now."

She was quiet for a very long time. The hotel room felt eerily silent. He said nothing. Let her drown in the silence, let her think, let her wrestle with the truth.

Finally, she said, "I want to spend the night with you."


	11. Chapter 11

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean… that came out wrong. I didn't mean that I want to _spend_ the night with you, you know. I—look, you'll probably find this hard to believe since I've tried to kill you, cried uncontrollably, been nearly catatonic, and pried into your personal life all in the span of a coupe of hours but I'd rather stay here, in this hotel room with you, than be anywhere else."

"Why?" It was a genuine question with just an undercurrent of pleading, as if Severus had no idea why anyone would want to spend a second longer with him than was absolutely necessary.

"You don't want anything from me… other than honesty, which I'm trying to give you. And I was right. You understand the world of 'and yet.' I don't have to pretend to be strong or brave or even okay for you. That's—have you ever held your breath until you nearly pass out? It's like the first mouthful of air after that. When your whole body is screaming for oxygen and that first lungful is such a relief."

He was looking at her as if maybe he was regretting not bringing up the Janus Thickey ward earlier. Finally he settled for, "I'll stay with you, if that's what you want."

"You don't _have_ to. Can I ask—how did you see this night going?" The last thing she wanted was his pity. She would take knowledge, acceptance, and even comfort but the thought of him feeling sorry for her made her stomach churn.

"Oddly enough for someone who spent the last decade planning out every minute of every day, I didn't think it all the way through. I got about as far as making you a cup of tea."

"Well, I could go for a cuppa."

"Alright," he agreed.

While he ordered from room service, Hermione disappeared into the loo. She turned on the taps, letting the water warm, and busied herself with taking down her hair before she finally looked at her self in the mirror. Her hesitation was two-fold. One, she was pretty sure she was going to find a ring-eyed girl who could have been related to a raccoon. Two, she still wasn't big on meeting her own eyes.

To her surprise, her makeup had held up relatively well. It was a little smudgy, but it wouldn't send small children screaming into the night. She scrubbed her face clean and fussed momentarily with her hair before deciding it was a lost cause. She changed out her dress, relishing the feel of air on her bare arms, something that had come to signal the end of the day for her since she always wore long sleeves in public. She dressed in more casual muggle attire and then stowed the dress in her purse along with her shrunken shoes.

Once she was certain she had heard the hotel door open and close again, she ventured back out. Severus' eyes ran across her, snagging briefly. Hermione couldn't help wondering what he saw when he looked at her. Still the annoying know-it-all from his classroom? A broken girl? His dark eyes gave away nothing.

"How do you take your tea?"

"With just a little dash of milk."

His eyes locked on hers and she couldn't help grinning, even chuckling. It was probably one of the first real smiles she'd felt stretch her face since the war.

"That's how I knew how you took your tea. I noticed it at breakfast at Grimmauld Place."

"And I thought I was observant," he said drily.

"I'm sure you had more important things to notice than how an annoying little swot likes her tea," Hermione teased.

They both sat in their original chairs, across from each other, with a cup tea. There was no crackling fire, no pounding rain, and no good books to get lost in but it felt very reminiscent of that day in the library.

Only this time they talked.

They talked about things that mattered and things that didn't.

They talked about potions and moronic first years who seemed determined to blow themselves up. They talked about books and theories.

They talked about places they'd been and places they'd like to go. They talked bout his death and possible resurrection someday in the distant future.

They talked about nightmares and dreams. They talked about fears… and hopes.

They ran out of tea and the sky behind him was starting to lighten before their voices started to wind down. Not running out of things to say, but growing thoughtful, contemplative.

The night had been a cocoon but with daylight came the rough intrusion of reality.

"I'll have to go soon," Hermione said; even to her ears it sounded like a question or maybe a plea for leniency.

"Yes, I'm sure they'll turn the world upside down and shake it if it looks like you're missing."

"Unfortunately. Privacy is not a perk that comes with being a 'hero'."

"Remember, you don't have to be that… or anything else."

"Right."

"I'm serious."

"It's not quite that easy."

"No. Most things worth having aren't easy," Severus conceded, and even though he was agreeing with her Hermione still felt like she had lost the battle.

"Thank you."

"For agreeing with you?"

"No, for not being upset by the letters. For finding me. For letting me cry. For staying the night. For talking to me. For everything."

"I didn't appreciate them at first, but this night has been… singular in my life. Thank you for trying that day in the library, for mourning me, and for coming tonight. Even though you did try to hex me."

She didn't take the bait on his teasing. "I feel like we're saying goodbye."

"Hermione… we can't—"

"I know."

"And you can't write to me any more. It's too risky."

"You're asking me to stop."

"Yes. Stop mourning me. Stop beating yourself up. Stop being sad. Stop living the life other people want you to live. Live your life, Hermione. You only get one."

"I don't know…."

"I'll tell you what. If you ever end up decking Sirius, you can write me about that. That's worth the risk."

"It doesn't sound like you're kidding."

"I'm not."

"Do you want me to go right now?"

"… No, check out isn't until 11."

Hermione's face broke into a smile again. "More tea then?"

"Yes, I'll order it."

And he did. And they kept talking as the day brightened around them.

FIN

* * *

_AUTHOR'S NOTE_

_And that my lovely readers, is a wrap. I hope you enjoyed the story. It didn't go quite the direction I originally thought it would; that's what happens when you don't outline things, but I'm okay with it. _

_Healing is a process. It doesn't happen all at once, so Hermione still has quite a journey ahead of her. But one thing I've realized from my own journey is that sometimes help comes from unexpected places. Sometimes someone out there just gets it. I wanted that for Hermione. _

_And while it would have been great to see these two end up together it just didn't feel right. She's not in a place for that. Not yet. And (if we're really honest with ourselves) Severus probably isn't either. _

_But who knows what tomorrow will bring? _

_I already have another story in mind. It will be an 'M' rating. It may be a sequel / follow up to this; I haven't quite decided that. But it is coming soon, and I hope you'll read it. _

_Whether this is the end of the road for you and me, dear reader, I've truly appreciated your time. Just seeing the number of 'views' tick up on my story inspires me, and of course, I couldn't have made it through without the reviewers. You've all been fantastic and very kind. _

_Much love. _


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